It was always the same. Every morning, without fail, Benedict Bridgerton insisted that you be the one to bring him his tea.

You never understood why. There were plenty of other maids, plenty of hands far more suited to the task. Yet, whenever someone else attempted to deliver it, they were promptly sent away with a charming but firm, "Ah, but where is she?"

And so, it became routine. You’d knock gently on the door to his study, balancing the fine china teacup on its delicate saucer. He’d look up from whatever sketch he was working on, eyes crinkling with a smile as he gestured for you to set it down. Sometimes, he’d make idle conversation, asking about your day in a way that made it hard to remember that he was a lord and you were a mere servant.

But today was different.

Today, as you set the tea down on his desk, Benedict did not immediately sit. Instead, he lingered by the door, watching you. His expression was unreadable, a touch softer than usual, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

"You do realize," he said suddenly, voice low and steady, "you’re the only one I actually look forward to seeing in this house?"